The London Ward
by GallifreyanPanicMoon
Summary: 7 years after Mary Poppins' visit, the Banks children have grown up to see their world torn apart in almighty war. It is June 1917, Jane is now 17 and working as a nurse, Michael 14 but eager to fight for his country. When London is bombed and the two siblings rescued by a familiar stranger, the Banks realise their world needs all the hope it can get. But where is Mary Poppins now?
1. Prologue

Prologue

A music box sits in the corner of a room. It turns as it hums a familiar tune. A little hand turns it at a gentle pace. She smiles at her brother as the pair of them sing their favourite lullaby. Suddenly, a friendly hand halts the little girl. She turns to her beaming friend who holds a thick white snow globe in her palm. The pair of them listen to the tale yet again.

...

The children both walk through the busy streets. Their kite has run off and they embark to find it before the wind claims it as her own. They kick up their feet as they push through the crowd. A tall, gangly man stands with a drum on his back and an accordion in his hands. His face is bright in a radiant smile. Through their excitable panic, his soft, familiar voice hums to them:

_Wind's in the east, mist coming in,_

_ Like something is brewing, about to begin._

_ Can't put me finger on what lies in store,_

_ But I feel what's to happen, all happened before._

"Jane, Jane!"

Jane Banks awoke with a start. Her ears throbbed at the sound of Ellen, rapping on her door. Her reality began to settle in around her as she recalled the new arrangements of her present life. Tilting her head slightly, she looked through her window. Past the giant cross taped against the glass, she observed the peak of sunlight coming up from over the horizon.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Ellen entered holding a candle and Jane's freshly ironed uniform. "If you please, Jane, you did ask me to wake you at this hour."

Her voice was thick and heavy and pounded in Jane's tired ears. She gently brushed a few stray hairs from her eyes and attempted to sit up. "Of course, Ellen, thank you."

"I'm sure it'll be a right tough day for you," she told her as she placed her uniform on her chair, "paper says there's a new lot just arrived from the front."

Jane sighed and nodded understandingly. "I'm not surprised," she said. "Thank you, Ellen."

Ellen left and Jane sat in her bed, thinking about what she had just envisioned. There was something strange and nostalgic about her dreams lately. Seven years at least had passed since her adored nanny had left her. Though her thoughts, when making difficult decisions, had often strayed to the wise words of her elder, it had been a great many years since she had been in need of her presence. While she and her brother had each been blessed with the fortune their nanny had brought them, she was now grown up and in no need for the same guidance she had once required as a little girl. Mary Poppins was off doing what she has always done – helping families to help themselves – and while she could see no reason she would be in need of Mary now, something strange told her that she needed her more than ever.

London, 1917. Times were harder than history has seen them yet. The whole world was at war with itself, but not like any other war seen before. It was once known that war was strictly political – a real gentleman's business both on and off the battlefield. Now, fear and terror invaded every home and every soul as the real battlefield appeared in the homes left behind.

Jane hastily climbed out of bed and pulled on her tunic, fastened her apron and, after brushing her hair, tied her cap neatly around her head. This was no time for floating tea parties on ceilings or adventures in the lands of chalk drawings. The world was in a pit, lower than Dante's hell. There was no time for the silly wonders of her childhood. All she could do now was help where she could. Only then could people see hope.

...

Michael had been up for hours. By the dim gas lamp in his room, he had been flicking his way through another book he had managed to get of a _friend_. It taught him everything he needed to know – how to stand, how to walk, how to handle each delicate item – it gave him a list of tests to do for himself. He had tried each one individually in private, and succeeded. He had even managed to fib his way to the doctor, just to be sure that this was all possible.

Ellen's footsteps echoed in the corridor. He shut the book and shoved it under his pillow so no one would raise even the slightest suspicion at his behaviour. Ellen came in with his clothes.

"And how are we this morning, Michael?"

"The same old," he replied, bluntly.

Ellen dusted his coat which was hanging on his wardrobe door. "The master's waiting down stairs if you want to speak to him now." He tried to silence a groan; he knew this had been coming. "Have you given it any thought yet?" She asked him. "No one's saying you have to."

"Well of course I've given it some thought and my answer is still no," he told her, simply.

Ellen sighed. "I knew it would be like this, and I'll be honest I don't want you to go."

"And I don't want to leave either!" He protested. "I'm not a child! I am fourteen and I have just as much right to stay as Jane has. I suppose it's because she's actually doing something to help–"

"We are all doing our little bit, Michael. Goodness knows this bloody war has gotten closer to home than I think anyone might have imagined."  
"But you don't understand," he told her. "I _want_ to do my bit! That's why I've stayed! I want to help, the way a man should! I'm sick of sitting on my arse and–"

"Michael! Do be civil!"

"I want to make everyone proud." He told her finally. Then, hesitating, he added "I want to make father proud."

Ellen sighed and came to turn off the gas lamp. "Michael," she told him, "if you think that sticking round till you can join the army is going to make your family proud, then you've seriously got to rethink your outlook."

He sighed in annoyance.

"Just because you don't want to be no fancy pants banker like your father doesn't mean he's not going to be proud of you. And it especially doesn't make you any less of a man. A true man finds what he does – whatever that may be – and he does what he does, and he does it bloody well!" She told him.

Michael was stubborn, but even he couldn't suppress a smile at the maid's words. "Thank you, Ellen," he said honestly.

She nodded proudly. "But mind you, do me a favour and never so much as mention how vile me language is around you. The master would have a field day."

Michael smirked, "I don't think it will matter too much, so long as you don't speak that way to Jane."

Ellen winked at him. "Mum's the word then?" she asked him. Michael nodded.

...

The clock downstairs chimed eight times as Jane hurriedly made her way downstairs. Her father sat, as he did every morning, in his business attire with his brief case by his feet and _The Times_ in his hands. Jane tried to be a little merry. "Good morning, father," she said, brightly. He looked over his paper and smiled at his daughter. Some of her nervousness subsided.

George Banks was a practical man, who tolerated nothing but precision, order and traditional propriety. Though well acquainted with the idea of change, working in finance, he was yet a stubborn man and disliked to be challenged in his principals which were not easily altered. He loved his children, but he had always struggled to acknowledge his role as a father. Some years ago, he was well educated by a remarkable woman whose influence on his children and his family remained unforgotten by all who lived under his roof. Now, however, times had changed. His _children_ had changed. As they had grown up, they had adopted a sense of initiative common among adolescent persons. Through such change, he remained determined in his original role as a father and found it difficult to trust his children in not only their new lives as young adults, but their daring endeavours in a society twisted by war and modern principals.

"You're in for a rough day," he told her, his eyes still on the article he was reading. "Another lot of them have arrived just this morning."

"So Ellen told me," she replied. He sighed deeply, his eyes still fixed on the page. He was trying to avoid her, Jane sensed. He still hadn't come round.

There was nothing Jane could do to be useful that her father would approve of; nursing was the closest thing she could get. With the great changes times had brought, Mr Banks remained reluctant to let go of tradition. The war had been a calling for women to stand up and work the nation while their boys worked the battlefield. Jane was quick to be amongst it. Finally, a chance to do something real, to actually make a difference – it's what her mother had worked for her whole life. Anything was certainly better than sitting round to be objectified by every gentleman, sleaze, but either way, every _man_ she encountered.

She had wanted to go to the factories, seen the machines and learnt how they work. A far greater experience than what any school or governess could have taught her. But she knew she was out of her wits. Her father would never allow it, not even for Michael – he was much too _English_ for that. She had remained in high hopes for a while – he had married her mother after all. And even though he never fully approved of her means of expressing her ideologies, he had admired her courage and her resilience.

The death of her mother had broken all of their hearts. It was supposed to be just another rally in town. She had promised Mr Banks she would be home that night – she wouldn't do anything stupid. According to witnesses, she had not done anything stupid. Like all the women there, she protested to give women their voice. When a great fight broke out, she had happened to be in the path of two oncoming men. No one saw what happened, the next thing they knew was she was bleeding from the head. By the time she had reached the hospital, nothing more could be done.

Jane guessed her father was scared. He had lost his wife; he did not want to lose his daughter as well. While his stubbornness had always infuriated her, she remained somewhat understanding of the struggle it must be for him. The idea of nursing seemed to have come across a little better to him, so she settled on that. She always admired her mother, but she was cautious to speak out and do her bit through other means.

"It was a great blast, so it seems," he told her. "It doesn't sound too good."

She sighed heavily. "I am fully aware of that, father," she told him, flatly.

He folded up his paper and placed it on the table."Are you sure you want to be doing this?" He asked her, sternly. "I'm sure the ward can wait a while and you can employ your time a bit–"

"War doesn't wait for anyone," she told him. "You of all people know that."

...

At half past eight, she left the house. The walk to the hospital wasn't long and she enjoyed it none the less. She felt a sheer delight in walking the streets of London alone. In her uniform, she was official and respectable and didn't need a chaperone. People of every kind – men, women, adults and children – would see her as a good, strong person. She was a nurse. She was helping the people and helping her country. No one would so much as think ill of her.

She arrived just as Big Ben announced the ninth hour. She looked on as large trucks began to arrive carrying a good number of battered and shaken men, all in appalling states. She hung up her coat in the staffroom and after checking her schedule, headed to the ward. This was going to be a full day.

The new group were all being wheeled in. Some blinded behind bandages, others lying unconscious on stretchers. She often wondered, looking at them, what sort of a world she lived in where innocent men were being treated thus. She wondered about the Germans who had done this, and the other things these men had done to the Germans. How must their hospital look? Was it really all that different?

She got to work putting new patients to bed and carefully copying their details and symptoms. She glanced up from her clipboard and saw a group of lieutenants talking by the door. One of them stood there stern and cold. His hair was dark but his eyes were a piercing blue. It was like a splash of impossible colour jumping from a black and white film. His face was too familiar and yet Jane couldn't place it. In fact, she was almost certain she had seen it rather recently. But it couldn't be a face she had seen in real life. It was almost as though he was from a dream.

There was something else, a sort of emptiness in his face, like he was missing something. The men she knew seldom smiled, the war had stripped the world of its brightest smiles, but this man particularly seemed really lost without a smile.

She tried to place a smile on his face in her mind, but it was impossible. War had torn any remote thought of happiness from the conscience of all persons. Suddenly, one of the lieutenants said a joke – or he must have said something amusing, because the very man, for a split second, tweaked his lips into an honest smile.

Jane gasped and almost dropped the clip board she was holding. A rush of memories filled her mind as she knew exactly who this man was. His smile was indeed dreamlike – because she _had_ seen it in a dream. It was the smile of the very man who sang to them. Long ago, when she was ten years old, that day her kite had run away.

...

**This has been in my head for a while and I have finally managed to begin writing it. It may take a while to update, but my stories strive for quality over quantity. This is something I am enjoying planning and I do have plans to take it much further. Thank you if you have supported me in any of my other works. If you haven't, I hope you enjoy this.  
I apologise if there are any grammatical errors. I believe I have fixed them all, but one can never be too sure.**


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Michael gathered his possessions – his books, his watch and the couple of hundred pounds he had saved from the paper deliveries he'd made over the course of the year. He hadn't dared to tell his father about it, nor what he had been doing with his summer. He told everyone he was remaining deep in his books, ready to go to boarding school in the autumn. They had talked a great deal about evacuating him, even if he still wanted to study before going to school. But he told them he wasn't quite ready to leave. This was not true of course. He had been ready to leave since the war began. Now he was planning his departure once and for all.

He clasped his satchel shut and quickly put on his coat. He knew Ellen had noticed the dirt it had picked up, despite his assurance that he had been house bound all summer. Michael quietly slipped out of his room and went down the servants' stairs to avoid confrontation in the parlour. He slipped through the kitchen, after ensuring the cook wasn't there, and hurried along the street.

London had been completely transformed by the war. The buildings had been lined with sacks, concealing their ornamented fronts. Trucks and other ugly cars cruised the streets, instead of the gorgeous carriages one used to see. London had always been dirty, but its culture and economy had often concealed most of its ugliness. Now, it was on display for the world to see. Instead of the usual policemen who stood on street corners in their helmets, soldiers stood heavily armed and alert. Soldiers were everywhere. You couldn't look in a single direction without encountering the British Army. Despite the many disruptions to the English way of life, England had yet become more English with the growing loyalty to King and Country.

He headed west. Running through the streets, frequently checking his watch to make sure he was on schedule. Coats were always necessary in London, even in the summer. The winds were strong, dust picked up and, if anything, people used their coats to keep their garments from suffering. The wind was in the east. It blew in his face as he paced on. Checking his watch, he began to jog. He passed the public hospital, glad that Jane had not yet left when he had. He ducked down the next alley to find him, right on time.

Anyone who might have passed Michael that morning could have asked him where he was headed so early. The boy had prepared one simple response: "to meet a friend". Jock had been a good friend indeed the past month. The two of them had been acquainted at school, but after the war really began to influence the young boys, Jock soon became Michael's ticket out.

Jock was almost a head taller than Michael and looked beyond his years. He was still a few weeks away from his fourteenth birthday, but he was already shaving weekly and taller than most of their classmates. He was wearing a smart hat and a thick overcoat, despite the warmer climate. The only way Michael knew it was him was by his school shoes which he wore because he did not yet have business shoes to make him look some years older. Michael supposed no one would really bother to look at his feet, with his height and face. War burned up a lot of money; he could make up an obvious explanation.

Jock looked up and gave his friend a smirk. "Hope I'm not too obvious then."

"Your shoes," Michael told him, "without them you'd look another ten years older."

"I can imagine," he remarked. "I'll borrow dad's old ones for the interview, he won't miss them."

Michael nodded. Jock moved closer and began to speak more softly.

"Did you bring it?" he asked sternly. Michael hurriedly dug in his satchel for the money he had earned. He handed to Jock who counted it quickly. Then, he placed it in his tick jacket pocket and pulled out a thick envelope addressed to Michael.

"I haven't seen it yet," Jock explained. "Open it now, so we can make sure it's all fine. I don't want you to get ripped off."

"Thanks," Michael told him. The envelope was rather heavy. Michael wondered if maybe it felt heavier than it actually was because of the burden it carried with it. He quickly cut it open and pulled out, freshly made, a handsomely bound passport.

It certainly looked real. There was not an inch of it which might appear suspicious, let alone detect it as a forgery. Michael wondered if that's why it had cost so much. He flipped it open to the first page.

A rather excellent version of himself stared back from the postage stamp image in the corner. He had got Ellen to do his hair especially to ensure he looked much older. Not that she really knew what the photograph was for; he had told her it was for boarding school. Below read the following:

Name: Banks, Michael George

Nationality: English

Date of Birth: 21 March 1899

He looked up at Jock who exhaled deeply. "It's the real deal, isn't it?"

Michael nodded. "I didn't think it would be so... so... well, so _real_."  
"Neither," Jock admitted. "I just hope mine's just as good," he confessed. "It's coming next week and there's not much time. If all goes well, we can then go enlist together."

Michael nodded. He really didn't know what to say. What he was holding changed everything he knew about himself. He was now four years older than he had been that morning. Four fictional years which were entirely for him to write. He didn't have to wait for school or anything else for that matter. He had just sped up time.

Three hundred pounds well spent. Time really _was_ money.

Jock placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "We really are doing this, aren't we?" He said. Michael breathed nervously. "I didn't think it would get this far," he admitted.

"You're not going to back out now?!" Jock protested.

"Don't be daft!" Michael exclaimed. "I'm ready to get out of here! I'm ready to see the world, I'm ready to fight and I'm ready to make my family proud, whatever happens out there!"

Jock grinned widely. "It's going to happen," he said happily. "It's really going to happen."

"If your passport doesn't arrive," Michael told him, "telephone me directly. Otherwise, we'll meet at the town hall next Saturday as planned."

Jock nodded.

"I had better go home," Michael said checking his watch. "Before everyone gets suspicious."

"I should be getting back too," Jock agreed. "My parents think I've gone to the library."

Michael held out his hand to his friend. "Thank you," he said, "I couldn't have done this without you."

Jock clasped it tightly and smirked down at him. "Nor I without you."

With that, Jock tipped his hat to Michael and strolled off down the alley.

**I've got the next chapter all written up - it was going to be one but it was far too long (by my standards, I prefer shorter chapters but many of them - besides, so many breaks in the plot). Anyway, expect that soon. Then I don't know when I'll update next - uni and all. Plus I am writing two other stories, but I've hit a bit of a wall with them. I love writing them but they're very challenging.  
Thank you if you have been following, I fully appreciate it.**


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Jane made great haste in her work that morning but her thoughts were indeed elsewhere. Though she was sure she knew that smile anywhere, she wanted to be certain. Of course, it had been years since she had seen him, she hadn't a clue what he looked like now - he probably wouldn't recognise her. The man she had seen had certainly began to age a little himself, but she supposed war made everyone look older – there was a great sense of maturity among people as ignorance was always first to be slaughtered.

The officers left the ward, heading down the corridor presumably to discuss future plans for their sick and wounded. With every lot that were sent off to the front, a greater number ended up here, and plenty more with their maker. It truly was a horrid system, Jane thought, but what else could be done? She followed them out into the corridor, her eyes not leaving the crowd for a second, her gaze fixed particularly upon the man in question. They had assembled themselves with one of the doctors and were keeping their voices low. He was just on the edge of the group; she would be able to get his attention without disrupting the rest of them. She inhaled deeply and was about to walk towards them when–

"Miss Jane Banks!" A girl a head shorter and a year younger than her stepped right in her path. "Don't you have a ward to attend to?"

"Good morning to you too, Harriet," she said, tonelessly. "I have done my duties and thought I might speak to the doctor about some procedures for the new comers." This was partially true, there were a couple of cases in her ward she needed checked, but she had been curious to meet this familiar stranger.

"What do you think I am, a fool?" Harriet protested in her thick Yorkshire accent. She glared at Jane darkly. "Get your eyes of their arses. They're here to work and recover, don't mess with them."

"I could actually say the same for you," Jane said coolly in response. "Don't think the whole hospital doesn't know about you and Lieutenant Stanford. It's been all the talk, what you two have been up to. _You_ might want to be careful, I'm sure the British Army doesn't want a scandal."

Harriet struck a finger out at Jane's face. "What I do in me own time is my own business."

"As is mine," Jane replied. "Now, if you'll excuse me." She brushed past Harriet and walked on down the hall. The group of officers and the doctor were gone.

...

She finished early that day. For the first time, it was still broad daylight by the time she had to head home. She walked through the streets again, thinking about the man she saw. Could it really have been him? She considered how long it had been. She didn't think she had seen him since well before the war. All these years and not a single word, yet now? The war had done that to people – they would disappear for years and then turn up in the most absurd places.

Her thoughts turned back to her old nanny. She remembered how the pair of them had been. Even as a little girl, she could see the two were thick as thieves. She remembered, one Tuesday, when her nanny had her day off, Michael had asked her a very strange question.

"What do you reckon she does on these days?"

The little Jane had turned to her brother bewildered. "What on earth do you mean?"

"Mary Poppins!" He told her. "She's a nanny! She's always looking after children. What would she do on her day off?"

Jane sat there puzzled, but now curious. "I don't know," she admitted. "But I suppose it's none of our business."

"Do you think she sees Bert?" Michael asked, grinning.

"Maybe," Jane said, "I mean, they're friends. When mother or father aren't working, they often meet with friends."

"I meant _see_-see Bert."

Jane looked at him, further puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"Oh come on!" Michael protested. "You can tell how much they like each other!"

"Bert and Mary? _Together_?" Jane exclaimed, "whatever brought you to think _that_?"

"Look at them Jane!" Michael said, "it's _so_ obvious!"  
"Even if that _were_ the case, Michael," she told him, "might I remind you, _again_, that it's absolutely none of our business!"

She made him swear never to mention the subject again, but she remained forever curious. After their dreadful conversation, Jane had watched the behaviour of her nanny and their friend. Being a little girl, she had never thought about what two people being in love meant. She had often looked at her parents and wondered how much they loved each other – they were married, it must surely be a lot. But she hadn't known how things worked _before_ people were married. How did you know you were in love, or that someone loved you? How did you tell when it happens?

She walked on and smiled at her folly, her former innocence often brought her mild amusement. It reminded her of a time when the whole world was just as innocent – innocent to all the bad it was seeing now. Considering this former friend she hoped she had seen today struck some very puzzling questions as she walked: What had happened to them now? Were they still friends? Were they married even? Or had something happened to tear them apart? War had a way of tearing people apart whilst uniting others.

A piercing siren broke her thoughts as the people in the streets began hurrying away. There had been a couple of air raids in London. While she was sure she was safe where she was, she thought she had better hurry home. It was only a couple of streets away, she would be fine. She picked up her skirt as she began to jog through the streets. People rushed past her, almost knocking her over, but she was determined to get home.

An almighty crack echoed in the sky. The people gasped and everyone began to run. Jane remained calm but picked up her pace as she bolted round the next corner, heading down Cherry Tree Lane. She reached her gate, hidden behind the piles of brown sacks. The front door was open and she burst right in before anyone could make a fuss.

"Oh Jane! Thank goodness!" Ellen came out of the parlour to meet her. "Hurry now! Never mind all of that! In the shelter! Now!"

The pair of them hurried out the back door. At the back of the small yard, they had installed a small shelter. The cook was waiting inside as Ellen hustled Jane through the door.

"Father's still at work," she told herself.

"He's a grown man, he can look after himself," Ellen assured her.

"Where's Michael?"Jane asked.

Ellen breathed heavily. "I haven't seen him since this morning," she admitted. "He was upstairs but– He's been so quiet lately and, oh Lord, Jane! Oh heaven and Earth! How could I forget him?"

Jane held the maid's hand. "I'll go and get him. He should have come out himself but he never takes the raids seriously – says he wants to face it like a man."

"Well he's a daft devil," She exclaimed.  
"He's still my brother, Ellen," Jane told her.

"It's dangerous!" The maid gripped Jane's hands.

"I'll be quick."She assured her. "They haven't landed here yet. With any luck this won't be the first time."

"Luck ain't always gonna be hanging round save your arse!" Ellen covered her mouth, realising what she had just said.

Jane gripped her hand more tightly. "That doesn't mean I can't at least try."

Jane smiled at her maid and ran out the shelter door. The sky was turning red and black as she knew part of the city had gone up in smoke. She ran through the back door and pounded up the stairs. Everyone had taken their chances. Prayed for one last chance to make it through the storm, but Jane soon realised she had lost hers. Suddenly, without any warning an almighty blast hit somewhere close on their street. The building shook with almighty force and Jane fell to her knees as her home ignited in flames. The blast continued to ring in her ears, as she was deafened by the explosion. She made a good effort to climb the remaining stairs and found her way along the corridor. "Michael!" She called through the smoke. "MICHAEL!" Her own voiced pounded in her ears as the world around her became inaudible.

She busted into his room where he lay on the floor. She knelt down next to him and felt his pulse. He wasn't dead, but he was completely out cold. She pulled his arms over her shoulders in an attempt to carry him. The smoke grew thick and the flames stronger. She dragged her brother out into the corridor to be met with more smoke flooding her chest.

She fell to the floor, her brother unconscious next to her. The flames grew stronger around her and her skin was burning under the heat. She knew she was going to die. Her vision became a blur of black and red as she cursed herself at her folly. She couldn't save Michael, and she couldn't save herself. All those men at the hospital, all those lives she saved, but not her foolish brother. Through the fog in her eyes she took her last glance of the world. A strange face greeted her through the black and red – its eyes were thick and bold, a grotesque trunk hanging from its mouth. She began the rosary in her head, thinking it to be the face of the devil himself. No, she did her bit, she helped their men. Surely not! The face vanished as the smoke closed in around her eyes. Everything fell to black.

**Two chapters in one day, you have to be kind to me! Hopefully I can update this soon, I have plans for what will happen next, but university is getting very annoying right now, so bear with me.  
Thanks again for the responses so far. I fully appreciate it :)**


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

A dull light glowed through her closed lids. As they opened it glowed yellow and flickered through her void gaze. Jane's body was numb from weakness, but nothing hurt so much as her right ear. Every remote sound she heard pounded inside it like exploding grenades and she squinted her eyes tightly at the throbbing pain. A figured leaned over her holding something which touched her ear causing it to sting. The cold, wet texture seemed to gnaw at her like the icy fangs of a tiger in snow.

Jane tried to lean away as the figure continued to handle her wound. Her body betrayed her as she could barely so much as shift her position while the figure continued to prod her ear. He spoke, his words just hounding in her weak ear, but she managed to catch something of them in her other. "It will hurt for a while, but your hearing will restore within a few days."

While his voice burned the ear he was touching, it seemed to hum gently in the other and it was almost oddly familiar. It was definitely a voice she had heard before, but now it sounded tired, as though the greatest moments it had spoken were long gone. Her eyes began to focus correctly and she tilted her head slightly to look upon her caretaker.

His dark hair was slightly messy and if one looked closely, they would see a few strands of grey emerging with coming age. He was an officer. Jane could just make out the tan colour of his uniform and the straps on his shoulders as he leaned over a small bowl of water. His gaze looked down on his task, but Jane could make out that same blue which she had seen in Van Gogh's works during her visits to France. She smiled and immediately knew exactly who he was – not from her curious encounter some hours ago, but rather from the memory of an adored childhood long over but never forgot.

"Bert?"

The gentleman turned to her and smiled, completing the face of the same chimney sweep from all those years ago. "You've grown up very well, Miss Jane Banks."

...

Bert dug through the cupboard under the sink and found a pot and some mugs and began, with the modest materials he had, to make some form of tea. As Jane's vision settled, she began to recognise the interior of her family's bomb shelter. She looked across the room and was thankful to see her brother safe, lying on one of the other bunks. "He's just sleeping," Bert told her. "He wasn't too hurt, not as bad as you anyway." She inhaled deeply in relief, but after the shocking events of the night before, another burning thought suddenly crossed her mind. "Where's my father?"

Bert remained quiet as he did his best to continue his task.

"Bert," Jane said sternly. "Please tell me what you know or I will expect the worst."

The pot began to bubble and he poured the boiled water into a pair of metal mugs, adding tea bags. She tried to sit up a little as he came over and handed her the beverage before sitting down. "I haven't heard anything of him," he said honestly. "But you mustn't worry just yet. The list of the dead has not yet been published, and you can't get ahead before anything is confirmed."

"No, but I should prepare for the worst," Jane told him. "I want to reduce the shock if and when it comes."

"Jane, please–"

"I've only just moved on from the death of my mother. Having to handle–"

"Jane." Bert stopped her, "please let it rest until we know more. Michael is safe, you're safe. Ellen and Mrs Brill are safe. For now, think on that."

She had only just remembered the maid and the cook and, slightly embarrassed, queried Bert as to their whereabouts.

"Inspecting the damage and seeing where they can help. From what I saw of your home, it could have been a lot worse. The main staircase and the servants' quarters seemed to have taken most of the damage. I would suspect some of your possession may be gone, but I think most have been rescued. All I can ask is that you don't think too much about it just now – think about what you still have, rather than what you have lost."

Though aching with concern, she understood.

"I told them I was looking after you here. They'll be round to take you and Michael to the hospital in a few hours before it gets too dark."

"Oh, I'm sure I'll be fine," Jane said, trying to get up, but a wave of pain came over her head and she winced bitterly.

Bert smiled and shook his head. "Lie down, Jane. You won't be any good to anyone unless you help yourself first. As a nurse you should know that."

She reluctantly lay back again, holding her tea in her hands. It was still quite hot but she warmed her palms against the mug and inhaled the substance. The air was cold, despite being a summer evening. War made everything feel cold.

They heard a stir behind them. Michael was still asleep on the other bunk. "He woke up earlier," Bert told her. "Naturally wondering where you were and what had happened. I can assure you he was extremely surprised to see me." Jane laughed a little. Her ear still ached, but this happy reunion seemed to numb the pain a little. "He just wanted to be sure you were alright. I told him I was looking after both of you."

"Thank you," Jane said earnestly. She didn't know how much luck she had left, but whatever it was, she could not be more glad there was enough to have saved Michael when she couldn't.

"You are actually very lucky to be here," Bert remarked. "That was a bold move you did. I could see Michael was inside and was going after him myself. I didn't think I could carry you both out, but I'm glad I did."

"So am I," Jane confessed, gratefully. "I know I should have been much more rational about it, but all my thoughts were of Michael."

"It was understandable," Bert assured her.

Her thoughts flickered back to last night – the flames, the smoke, the heavy blasts, they all replayed in her head like a silent horror film. "It was actually quite terrifying," she admitted. "The flames were blinding and smoke was so thick. I could almost feel my spirit leaving me. My senses were boggled and I could have sworn I saw–" she stopped herself. She wasn't sure she could mention something so horrible, especially to Bert. Not only was it not in any way proper, but she couldn't bear to think about it. And all the while, the more she thought about it, the more real it seemed. She knew it could have easily been an illusion, smoke and trauma have been known to afflict people's senses. And yet, what the past three years had brought still made the possibility seem high. There had been many wars in history before, but only now had the battlefield come to reside in their very homes – only now was there pain and anguish on every corner. What she had seen could have easily been real for all she knew.

"What?" Bert asked curiously. "What do you think you saw?"  
Jane gulped, the frightening vision lingering more clearly in her mind. "I thought I saw the Devil." She admitted.

Bert's expression turned from curiosity to concern.

"It could have been anything!" Jane explained. "I've heard stories at the hospital – patients talking about the visions they saw through blasts and in fire and smoke. They deny many of them to be true. The nature of war alone is enough to meddle with peoples thoughts but I–" she cut herself off again, covering her mouth. She did not try to suppress her tears.

Bert was understanding. While they both knew her visions could only have been hallucinations, he could see she had received quite a shock. Running into a burning house to save her brother was one thing, drowning and being tormented in fire and smoke was another.

"What did it look like?" Bert asked. Jane's face became ghost white. "I only meant that if you describe what you saw then, maybe we can think of what else it could have been."

She nodded. "It was the most awful thing I have ever seen. Its eyes were round and black as bottomless pits – like one of Munch's paintings. But its mouth, oh its mouth!"

"What about its mouth?"

Jane quivered before she managed to say it. "From it hung a thick black serpent."

Bert's eyes widened, but not so much in shock but wonder. "A serpent?" He asked.

"It wasn't real, I know." Jane said, "And I might be exaggerating, but when I saw it, that's how I felt."

"Was the snake like a thick black python?" Bert wondered. Jane nodded.

Bert suddenly looked at his bag behind him and, to Jane's astonishment, smiled. "I know exactly what you saw, Jane," he told her, "and you needn't fear now, because I know for certain it was not the Devil."

He got up off his chair and went to dig into his bag. "When I came in to get you last night, I put this on to protect me from the smoke."  
He came back over to her holding a horribly ugly, but none the less, a very practical object in his hands.

"A gas mask?" Jane asked, her fear leaving her.

Bert smiled and nodded.

Tears of relief flooded Jane's eyes as she giggled at her folly. She lay her pillow and laughed heartedly. "Oh how ridiculous of me!" She beamed. Bert chuckled as well. "I've seen them plenty of times at work. I know how to use them, how did I not think of that?!"  
Their laughs were amplified in the small space as they almost forgot Michael was still sleeping. Quieting themselves down, they continued to talk with more optimism. "So, a nurse then?" He asked. Jane smiled modestly. "It seems the little Miss Jane Banks I once knew is not so little anymore."

She smirked at his words. "Seven years is longer than it feels, for sure."

"From what I've heard you're very good. The doctors are very impressed with your work. Many of the men have told me how well you have helped them."

"Thank you," Jane smiled. "You don't brush up too bad yourself, a soldier and all."

"I'm actually not a soldier," he informed her. "I'm a doctor."  
"Heavens!" Jane cried in pleasant surprise. "Congratulations, I guess. I had wondered why you of all people were at the hospital. I guess that's why it took me so long to recognise you. War changes people in the strangest ways."

Bert nodded in agreement. "Yes, it certainly brings out the best and worst in people."

"What made you become a doctor?" Jane asked curiously. "Or, I guess, what has happened to you all these years generally? Even before the war. I don't think I've seen you since Mary Poppins left us."

It was the first time in seven years that either of the two had heard that name spoken aloud. They halted their voices for a moment and dwelt on it. They had been fortunately reunited and were now making amends and catching up on years gone by. But where was the other member of their party? Her absence had never been quite as painful to either of them as this moment. What seemed most bitter about it was that they knew that neither knew of her whereabouts or what may have happened to her.

"Well," Bert tried to continue, "that's quite interesting. Naturally, I have always lived a modest lifestyle. You could say I was almost at the bottom of–"

"And yet more of a gentleman than any wealthy suitor I have ever met."

He smirked, embarrassed at her praise, especially coming from someone in her own social-economic position. "I just think that kindness is more important than anything in a person," he explained. "Which is why when they were taking on recruits for the war office, I latched right on. It had nothing to do with making a better name for myself – I just wanted to help people, because it's what I've always done."

"And what you're so good at," Jane remarked, "although they stomped your accent right out of you."

Bert laughed. "I was becoming a doctor; I had and still have to appear serious in some respect."

"You speak very well," she observed, "but I miss your old voice."

He smiled. "You're too kind," he said, "but I really haven't changed all that much."

"You're right," she smiled. "War has turned all of us on our heads, but what I think it does, more so than change people, is embellish their true natures, revealing who they really are. In that, it reveals who are the real heroes in this world. And while you might be a medical doctor now, the kindness you show is that which you've always had – you're still that same kind old chimney sweep underneath all that, and that's a good thing."

"I wouldn't go so far as to say you're still that same little girl."

"No," Jane agreed, sipping her tea. "But in some ways, I hold to that childish delight in life – it's the sort of spirit people need these days and I don't know where I'll ever find it again."

They smiled and drank their tea as they pondered silently on those years gone past. She had been reluctant to admit it before, but now she really had come to understand. There was no point in shutting out her past as though it was no longer relevant. Granted, those happy days singing of merry things and a glimpse of what magic there was in the world were long gone, torn away by almighty war. And yet, it was only now that Jane truly realised how precious their memory remained.

How the world had changed – how they themselves had changed. It was certainly much simpler and easier all those years ago. Jane suspected that as she had grown up, the world had with her. All the innocence and happiness that once was could no longer be sought in that same fashion. The world had matured as had its people, and whatever way the war took it, human kind would never again be as it once was. Times were very hard indeed. There was no point denying it. But Jane knew that that sort of joy and optimism was vital not just for her, but for everyone in this time. She wished so desperately she could share her by gone joys with people, to somehow support them as her memories did for her, but she was ignorant to how. None the less, the world needed something to help them, something to lift their spirits. Or perhaps, more accurately, _someone_.

**Thank you again to everyone who has been following this, it genuinely means a lot. The next section of this may take a little longer, seeing I want to do a bit of further research and I might add, I am in the process of writing two other fanfictions which I have neglected for some time on top of all my uni work, so sorry if you have to wait a little while. Thank you again for your support and I'm sorry about any minor grammatical errors, I have fixed most of them I think.  
Thank You**


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

By seven o'clock, a team of doctors was with them and Jane and Michael finally emerged to look at their house for the first time since the blast. Michael was shocked, Jane wanted to cry but told herself that they were luckier than most. It was fixable – most of the damage had been taken to the front and the main stairway. But she didn't know what would come with her father missing and her own income very modest. Bert had removed some of their belongings from the house – whatever he could find. Their coats had only been slightly singed – they had been put up in the back hall by Ellen. Grateful, Jane put hers on as dusk began to bring a cool change. While her heart ached, her head remained strong. They really had been lucky.

Ellen and Mrs Brill had removed their few belongings from the house and placed them in a couple of suitcases. Jane came over to them both and embraced them. "What will happen now?" She asked. Ellen gave her a tough smile. "You're father's a strong one, I'm sure he'll be alright."

"No, I mean to you two."

"We'll go down to the shelters," Mrs Brill explained. "They'll be needing someone to feed everyone."

Jane nodded and couldn't suppress the small tears forming in her eyes.

"Now, Jane," Ellen said, patting her. "They've hit us hard, alright. But we're English, and we'll stomp them any day!"

Jane laughed through her tears. "Where did you get your tough spirit?" She asked in amazement.

Ellen smiled. "Years of experience, love," she told her. "But you've every right to fret right now, just don't let it go to your head. You're strong Jane and I'm sure they'll be needing you soon as you're better."

She hugged her maid quickly and thanked Mrs Brill for everything the pair of them had done as Bert came over to lead them to the truck. It was a great green vessel with a bloody red cross blazed on either side, almost glowing against the murky brown and grey of the scene around it. They climbed into the back, sitting cautiously on the floor. Jane was told to lie down, but she insisted on sitting up to have a proper sight of the newly damaged London. As they drove, despite the continuing pounding in the side of her head, Jane watched the road behind them acknowledging every last piece of her beloved city they passed.

As they drove away from number 17, Jane took a good look at the place which for years had been their home. She was right in thinking they had been lucky. While their house still stood, however weakly, the best of Cherry Tree Lane was now amidst great piles of rock. As the truck rounded the corner, Jane quietly thanked God for what little she still had.

London was famous for its fog, particularly at dawn and dusk. But it wasn't the fog that clouded the streets that evening. Thick black smoke from fires still burning soiled the clouds overhead while a cold wind tossed ashes and rubble around in the line of sight. The city was transformed. What was once a thriving metropolis, even in the midst of war, was now an inferno.

Shops, museums, post offices, all gone up in smoke. She wondered about the numerous priceless artefacts lost in the blaze, along with the priceless words of loved ones which would never be read by their recipients. All the memories of the world preserved for centuries gone – their last link to this world destroyed and lost in the ghastly black fog. Despite her own involvement, the reality of the war had not really hit her until her home had become the battlefield.

The truck halted at an intersection and Jane looked out again, this time observing a young boy accompanied by an officer in the wreckage of an old house. She looked at his face as the little boy's skin grew pale with grief at the sight of something buried beneath the rubble. She could only guess it was a body. Her heart dropped in her chest at the very thought. Her breath caught in her throat and tears began to roll down her cheeks again as she felt his innocence as he witnessed something no child should. She had seen many dead bodies in her time at the hospital, but none of her experiences were remotely as bad as seeing death through the eyes of that child. Children are not meant to be acquainted with death. As the truck moved on and Jane watched, through each individual street and path, as her beloved city mourned itself.

Their journey felt like hours, though only twenty minutes had gone when they arrived at the London Public Hospital. It had attained not even a scratch from the blast. Jane wondered if it was the Germans or God who thought London should at least have its health aid. The jolted to a truck stop, Michael stirred as he had slept most of the journey. Bert got to his feet and offered a hand to Jane. Very carefully, she climbed to her feet as her head immediately began to spin. Another officer took her hand and guided her up the set of stairs into the main hallway of the hospital.

Through her clouded vision, she saw them all. Not soldiers, innocent civilians helping themselves into different rooms accompanied by nurses with clip boards, their white aprons shining in the dim light against the dirt-covered Londoners fresh from the blasts. She too was still in her uniform though her hair had come loose and she looked less like a working nurse than a civilian, but her presence and clothes caused a few people to turn a glance. A small group of children congregated around a nurse who was giving them clean pyjamas to get into. Another nurse stood by holding a little boy in her arms. His little fingers gripped at the red cross on her arm like a crucifix; looking for something to pray to.

She was guided to a slightly less crowded ward – as a member of staff, she was given priorities. Not out of sentiment, but rather because getting her better sooner meant that she would benefit to other patients. Bert came in shortly after as her doctor to attend to her wounds briefly.

"They will be fine," he assured her. "What you really need to do though, is rest."

Jane nodded but stopped when the sensation began to hurt her blindingly. "When do you think I can work again?" She asked.

"Not for a few days," Bert told her. "You need to let your eardrum settle again and that will take the most time."

"I get the feeling there were a number of nurses who ended up like me today," Jane acknowledged. "Or worse."

"Try not to think about that right now," Bert told her. "There are lots of things we still don't know about today. For tonight, just focus on yourself. You will find yourself more useful if you look after yourself first and then help others."

She smiled and nodded slightly to show she understood.

...

Bert left the ward and continued down the packed corridor to help the few staff members assist the swarm of victims, patients and refugees.

"Doctor Alfred," a voice called behind him. He turned and met the hospital's head doctor, Doctor Miles Anderson. "Yes sir?" Bert replied.

"We have moved all the children into the school hall next door. The staff there have kindly offered space for a children's ward."

"Excellent," Bert smiled. "That will make things easier here."

Dr Anderson nodded. "There is one slight problem," he added as he and Bert walked down the hall to remove themselves from the chaos. "Some of the nurses have been reported missing today." Bert was not surprised at this news. "But more importantly, I just received a wire from the police about the head nurse here."

"Nurse Samson?" Bert asked.

Dr Anderson nodded.

"Has she been hurt as well?"

He looked down regrettably. "Nurse Angela Samson was killed today in the blast."

Bert's eyes widened in shock. "That really is terrible," he acknowledged. "I didn't know her, but I heard there was none better."

"It is shocking and most regrettable," Dr Anderson agreed. "However, it raises another issue. Who will run things around here?"

Bert was speechless at this last realisation. He had only thought of the Banks children for the past five hours, he hadn't even stopped to think about how even the help services themselves would be affected.

"A number of other nurses are injured as well," Dr Anderson observed, "and I can't think of many of the others who would have been quite as capable."

"What will be done?" Bert asked.

"I'll send a wire to the war office tonight but leave you in charge for the next few days" he instructed. "Perhaps one of the convalescent places might have a few spare hands. Hopefully we can get someone in very soon."

Bert nodded in agreement, "I hope so too."

**Sorry this took so long, uni and such. I will be writing much more seeing I am almost properly on holidays, so be on the lookout. You're probably wondering where's Mary Poppins a midst all this? Don't worry, you'll soon know more in the next few chapters :)  
Thank you for reading this so far, it does mean a lot to me. Once again, sorry for any grammatical errors and such.**


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